YALE UNIVERSITY PRIZE POEM 

1904 



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YALE UNIVERSITY PRIZE POEM 

1904 



OSTIA 



BY 



WILLIAM SAVAGE JOHNSON 



NEW HAVEN 

The Tuttle, Morehouse, & Taylor Co. 
1904 



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PREFATORY NOTE 

This poem received the seventh award of the prize 
offered by Professor Albert Stanburrough Cook to 
Yale University for the best unpublished verse, 
the committee of award consisting of Professor 
Thomas D. Goodell, Rev. Frederic Palmer, and 
Professor C. H. A. Wager. 



OSTIA 



In Ostia to-day the sun looks down 

On moldering forum and dismantled wall, 

On broken colonnade of palace-hall 
That once swept Tiber with majestic frown. 
Where lie the ruins of the ancient town, 

With the grey lichen creeping over all, 

Once rang from waking unto evenfall 
The shout of merchant or of sailor brown. 

Hovered at Tiber's mouth the white-winged fleet. 
Her sails afloat to swoop on sunny Spain, 

And homesped galleys, flecked with yellow foam. 
Brought Persia's silk and Egypt's golden grain ; 
Mayhap the fair-haired Angles trod her street 

Whom Gregory pitied in the mart of Rome. 



Now o'er her battlements the night-winds sigh, 
Upon her walls the red sun turns to grey, 
Woodbine and ivy o'er the arches stray, 

And all her glories in a ruin lie. 

Young Italy awakes with eager cry ; 

'Winter is gone, behold a brighter May!' 
The words, with hope a-tremble, pass away, 

Nor rouse dead Ostia from her lethargy. 

She sleeps and dreams of splendor that is gone. 
Of Rome's imperial glory, nor will stir 

Nor put forth any green for lesser things ; 
But at the flutter of the waking dawn. 

When dreams come true, a vision troubleth her. 

An eagle, poised for flight, spreads forth his wings. 



II 

Small gift of beauty on that day 

Of sunshine had the hand of Spring 
O'er crumbling Ostia deigned to fling, 

When, jolting o'er the Roman way. 

Where broken arch the highroad spanned, 
We passed the Chapel of Farewell. 
Along the wayside, asphodel 

And white narcissus clothed the land. 

Light-hearted to the town we rode 

By wood and marsh, then clambered o'er 
Deserted street and broken floor, 

And marked the course where Tiber flowed. 

And as we tramped, the lazy guide 
Kept mumbling in a monotone. 
Till I grew weary of his drone. 

And, half contemptuous, turned aside. 



And he, observing, spoke again ; 

'Here died in peace at Ostia, 

The noble lady, Monica, 
The mother of the best of men.' 

Then woke our hearts to greet the name. 
As when the wind in April blows 
Dead leaves and the blue mayflower shows; 

And as we talked a vision came 

Of Austin, child of many prayers. 
Till, in response to my desire. 
The flame of their prophetic fire 

Touched my own spirit unawares. 

I saw them from the window gaze. 
Sheltered in quiet, where the din 
And shout of men pierced not within, 

Upon the garden's ripening maze. 



I saw them, from the world set free, 

Gasp for the waters pure and sweet 
That flow from Heaven's eternal seat, 

And, moist therefrom, lift hearts to Thee. 

The hidden things they seemed to know 
Of leaf and flower. Hushed the sound 
Of waters running underground 

With distant music sweet and low. 

And hushed the sounds of earth and air. 

While, wrapped in wonderment of thought. 
Their souls to God a highway sought 

In holy silences of prayer. 



Ill 

Think if some Easter, when the full choir stood 
To sing Te Deum, and the aisles replied; 
Or on far shores, where rolls the thundering tide, 

Or in the shadow of the fragrant wood ; 

Thou hast not, in the hand of solitude. 

Self-purged, and for a moment glorified, 
Rent wide the veil, and in a flash descried. 

Nor darkly seen, the vision of the rood. 

So in a twinkling, there in Ostia, 

Bethel arose when the swift vision came 
Of Austin's saintly mother Monica, 

Whose lips were kindled with the living coal. 
Who lit her lamp with the diviner flame 

And melted earth in white fire of the soul. 



As shades who purge their fault through circles seven 
Of woe and weeping, glow with sharper pain 
And praise the burning waves that wash their stain, 

When friends on earth lift hands of prayer to Heaven, 

So, through the darkening cloud asunder riven, 
On eagle's wing I seemed to mount amain, 
For one transfigured moment seemed to gain 

The flame for man's regeneration given. 

O crumbling town, thou art not wholly dead, 

Nor storms nor years can make thy memory die. 
Though glories proud of wood and stone are fled. 
The vision of thy dream is thine and mine ; 
Beneath the earth where moldering ruins lie 

Thou keepst aglow some spark of light divine. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




